Page 8 of The Longing

“Come here,” he booms.

The last thing I want is to go anywhere near him. But this is his castle. If I get away once, I won’t get away again.

And the humiliation of earlier still burns at me. Fenrother, in either form, could snap me in half, and even though after everything I’ve been through with my aunt, I’m done with being everyone’s doormat. Still, he doesn’t seem so enamoured with having a ‘mate’ as far as I can tell, so it’s not like he’s going to hold back.

What choices do I have that weren’t made for me?

None.

And I hate it.

Dragging my feet, I make my way down the hall to where he sits in all his dragony glory.

There’s a pile of fowl carcasses next to the table, which is, itself, covered in grease and wax from the many candles which dot it. Stretched across the fire are a couple of spits, each one filled with chickens, all turning slowly by way of a pulley which runs into the stonework. They sizzle and pop as they cook, the meaty scent making my mouth water unexpectedly.

The fire is welcome, especially in my damp state. I hold out my hands to it as my jeans begin to release water vapour.

“What are you doing?” Fenrother growls.

I see he’s hung my bra from one of the ornate pommels of his throne, like an underwear trophy. My jaw drops at the sight. He spots my gaze, gives me another low warning growl and digs his huge claws into the tabletop.

“I’m cold,” I say. “My clothes are wet and”—I give him my best death stare—“damaged.”

Fenrother huffs but doesn’t say anything for a while. I feel myself gently steaming from the heat, my clothing drying on my body and becoming uncomfortably crispy in the process.

All save my bra-trophy. Probably the one thing I’d prefer not to do without and the one thing I’m clearly not getting back. It doesn’t help that Fenrother’s earlier actions also meant I got my own pee on me, or that my jeans, from the knee down, are caked in mud, so as I dry, I’m also less than fragrant.

All I’d like to do is rest and not be all on edge like I am now. But unless Fenrother is either on the other side of the veil or locked in a dungeon, there is no chance of my adrenalin falling any time soon. My stomach growls annoyingly.

I do not want to ask him for food. I have to maintain some final shred of dignity.

“Eat,” Fenrother barks from his throne.

I ignore him. He pushes himself upright in an easy movement, making his abs ripple and his scales glitter in the light of the fire as he approaches the spits, removes one of the bubbling chicken carcasses with his claws, and shoves it at me.

“Too hot,” I respond, sticking my hands in my pockets in case he decides to drop the super heated chicken into them.

Fenrother looks particularly unimpressed and tosses the carcass onto the table instead, where it creates a hot puddle of fat. He spears the thing with a claw, and in a few seconds, he’s entirely dismembered it onto a surprisingly clean pewter platter. The meat steams as he flings himself back on his throne.

Iamhungry. But am I hungry enough to eat a meal offthistable, withthismonster watching?

I suppose he could be watching me do other things, given his behaviour so far, so the act of consuming food is probably the one I’d prefer him to concentrate on.

Picking up a piece of chicken breast, I blow on it, juggling the steaming meat from one hand to the other. I’m very aware of Fenrother’s gaze, but I choose not to look at him. Finally having got the chicken cool enough, I take a bite.

It is surprisingly good. I dart a glance at Fenrother as I shove the rest into my mouth and snatch up some more. He’s leaning forward, his chin propped on one fist, his amber holographic eyes missing absolutely nothing.

Which is what worries me. I put the chicken leg down slowly onto the table and take a pace back from him.

“You eat like a Hedley Kow,” he says. “Hardly enough to keep anything alive.” His eyes narrow and he looks up at my bra. “Perhaps it would be better if you were somewhere you couldn’t cause mischief until I know what to do with you.”

He snatches my arm, and I’m dragged down the hall, through a passage, and then up a wide winding spiral of stone steps, the treads worn in places, until we reach another door, one he unlocks with a huge iron key before shoving me inside.

“Fenrother…”

The door closes with a resounding crash.

“I’ll be back later, female.” I hear his muffled voice through the heavy wood.

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